


Eat Yourself

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pineapple is a slutty, slutty fruit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a hockey kink meme a while back - prompt about in-public dirty talk between these two? Something like that. Thus the lack of proper explanation as to where the hell they are, why the hell they're there...ect. (Do you really need the whys and the hows when these two look the way they do, though? Do you really?)
> 
> Title from "Eat Yourself" by Goldfrapp

It starts with a slice of pineapple.

They're seated toward the back of the ballroom, which the people in charge of this rented for the evening. It's a charity of some sort, a silent auction with a meal provided. The tables are all long and rectangular, facing the auctioneer on stage up in front.

The seat to Hank's left is empty. Vinny sprawls out next to him, bored and a little restless. The seat next to _him_ is occupied by a perspiring older fellow he doesn't recognize, one who, at the moment, has dozed off with his head thrown back and his expensive coat-sleeves dangling dangerously close to his dish. Vinny doesn't blame him – not like there's anything worth being awake for, _honestly_ , if he's going to go to the trouble of getting all dressed up, can't they add a little entertainment to these things? - but he gives him an unimpressed, and unseen, look regardless.

Then he sighs, poking at the frosted china bowl that holds an array of fruit that looks too fragile to eat. It takes a bit of digging before he finds the pineapple. It's glazed with something, probably sugar, and he eyes it a bit skeptically before spearing it and popping it into his mouth.

It's _good_ , though, the glaze more like honey, and so sweet he makes a tiny hum of appreciation as he swallows it down.

Beside him, Hank sits up a little straighter.

A lady dressed in the typical evening wear and high heels clicks up to the podium and begins what's most likely going to be an endless speech about generosity and the benevolence of her peers. Vinny loosens his starched-tight collar carefully and returns his interest to his plate.

He finishes the last of his fruit, trying not to slurp. When the only other thing he'd had tonight was a moderately-sized brussel sprout soaked in cranberry vinaigrette that apparently qualifies as a salad now, it's hard to stay _completely_ silent. There are only about five pieces of fruit total, and he finishes them off quickly.

His dozing neighbor's bowl is quite full, still, when he sneaks a peek. He thinks about it for half a second, then sighs again and slumps back into his chair.

That's when Hank reaches up to his tiny bowl of fruit and slides it down toward himself, then over to rest against Vinny's plate. He doesn't look at Vinny at all, but there's a particularly blasé set to his mouth that makes Vinny stare at the side of his head before picking up his fork again and hunting down one of Hank's untouched slices of pineapple.

This slice tastes even better, somehow, and he closes his eyes just briefly to savor it, making that same involuntary hum in the back of his throat as he holds the fruit on his tongue.

“Now there's a noise,” Hank murmurs. He's still not looking at Vinny whatsoever, but Vinny can't help giving him a startled glance. He tries to swallow (unwillingly) to apologize, but Hank keeps speaking, low enough that Vinny has to strain a little to hear. “Noises like that, makes me think you want something else in your mouth instead of pineapple.”

Vinny blinks, and then almost chokes on said fruit. Well. He's not bored anymore, that's for sure.

“Now you mention it, I could probably go for a steak,” he returns, just as quietly, willing to brush this off as a joke if Hank wants to.

Hank just raises an eyebrow at the lady droning on and flicks his fork back and forth between his fingers. His lips purse briefly, and Vinny flushes. Damn it.

“I was thinking more along the lines of you getting on your knees and opening my pants to get at my cock. See if you make that noise when your mouth is full of it.” Hank stops speaking to adjust his cufflinks. His fingers are blunt and tan, contrasting with the white of his shirt as he tugs at his sleeves.

Vinny darts a nervous glance at the gentleman to his right. Still out like a light, but _jesus_ , he wishes they weren't surrounded by people right now.

Then again, by the sly quirk of Hank's lips he catches before Hank smooths out his expression again, that would probably defeat the point. Vinny swallows.

Hank sniffs, turning his head to survey the rest of the room. The lady up front seems to be wrapping up her speech, and Hank nods amiably at another woman at the far end of their table who catches his eye. Before his attention is even seemingly back on Vinny, he's speaking again, under his breath. Vinny leans forward to catch it this time, already weirdly wired and on edge.

“Maybe put you on the bed and see what other noises I can get out of you. Lay you out and, ah, see what makes you talk to me. Fingers, maybe. Hmm.” Hank trails off, like he's deep in thought, and doesn't expand any further.

Vinny has to shift in his chair, adjusting for his own half-hard cock. When Hank stays silent, Vinny grips the edge of the table and clears his throat. His voice is still a gruff mumble when he makes it work. “You think I'm gonna just lie there all easy-peasy for you, you're in for a surprise.”

Hank's eyes crinkle at the corners, some kind of amusement that doesn't make its way to a smile, and he slumps in his chair, dropping a hand to his lap. Vinny very carefully doesn't follow suit.

There's a lightly mocking tone in it when Hank says, “Yeah? You gonna fight me for it? Make me pin you down to stretch you out? We'll both come out with bruises. Be all marked-up the next day. Your wrists'll be sore, won't be able to handle your stick if I have to hold you down.” He slides a glance at Vinny, finally making eye contact, and his smile is sharp, all teeth. “But you won't fight me for it.”

Vinny drops his head and groans, very quietly. This isn't fair. Hank is sitting there in his self-assurance, all hard athletic edges beneath his pressed Dior suit, and while most of Vinny's brain is centered around the thought of fingers just as tight around his cock as they'd be pinning his wrists to the bed, he's still a competitive fuck, and someone else having so much of the upper hand makes him twitchy.

He keeps his head ducked down, but he can see Hank out of the corner of his eye. “You _want_ me to fight?” His voice is hoarse, giving more away than he'd like, but he catches Hank's fingers curling into his thigh, wrinkling the smooth fabric of his suit pants. “Sounds like you do. Cuz it's challenging, yeah? You'd need it, need that, get the fuck _off_ on it. Sure, okay, say I suck your cock. Nice and hard and messy, right, you know the kind. But you gotta work for it.” Hank makes a rumble that has Vinny gulping in air as quietly as he can, half out of nervousness, half out of arousal. He gives in and slides his hand down to give his cock a quick squeeze under the table. Fuck, he's too hard for a public place.

The tablecloth only barely covers the action, and it's just – fucking _obscene_ , everybody around them with their attention on the front of the room listening to the auctioneer rattle on, when all Vinny wants to do is stick his hand down his pants, wrap his fingers around his cock and groan his way loudly to one hell of a messy orgasm. Or hell, stick his hand down Hank's pants to do the same, see if he can get some payback, here.

He settles on the next best thing. “Really think you could pin me down?” His gaze slides to the side and he manages to catch Hank's eye. He's pretty sure he's flushed, he knows he's panting a little bit, but he still manages to raise a cool eyebrow. “Really think you'd want to? Kinda hard for me to open myself up if my hands are tied to the bed, don'tcha think? Can't slick up my fingers and slide 'em all up inside myself if you're holding me down against the sheets.”

Vinny _hears_ Hank swallow, a thick, wet sound, and his hand tightens involuntarily over the hard line of his cock that's curving up under the fabric of his pants. He's fucked if he comes in them – he's not entirely sure how much getting come stains out of the Dolce and Gabbana is going to cost him. His hips twitch forward on the chair regardless, and the unsatisfying pretense of friction forces an airy little noise out of him. _God_ , he thinks. _This is going_ way _too far._

The room explodes in sudden applause, and it startles both of them; they each snap their attention to the front of the room to see what's happening, but as abruptly as it began, it settles down again. Hank's hand is off his thigh now, gripping the side of the table instead. His fingers are white-knuckled, but his thumb brushes the edge of his plate, back and forth. Absent, like he's thinking of something entirely different. Which, of course, has to be the case, given the way he's holding carefully still in his chair, the line of his cock hard and visible if Vinny just drops his gaze a little. He tries not to, though, not when he sees the rosy flush rising up from Hank's collar. It contrasts with the stark white of his shirt, but blends seamlessly into Hank's deep tan.

It looks warm, inviting. Vinny really wants to touch it.

He loosens his own collar, instead, tugging lightly at his tie until the knot unravels enough. He maybe pulls a little too hard and can't help but gasp against the pressure. Hank glares at him for that, the flush swelling in bright spots on his cheekbones. His hair's still perfectly styled, but there's sweat on his brow.

And his voice is very, very calculatingly even when he says, “It's much more fun when you don't have to do that to yourself. Get someone else to pull that tie tight against your throat so you can just – lie back. _Enjoy_ it. S'a much better rush.” Even, Vinny notes, but raspy. Like he's just swigged a couple fingers of whiskey in one go. He'd gloat, but he's sure his voice is just as hoarse from trying to hold back all the little sounds that want to swarm out of his mouth given half the chance and a crack in his careful attention.

So he stays silent, but sends his own cool glare right back, twists his tie meaningfully around three fingers and jerks the knot back into place in one violent pull. It's almost suffocatingly tight, and he chokes on his next breath, going light-headed for a few seconds. When he lets go, the sweet rush of air in his lungs makes his eyes fall shut involuntarily, and his fingers clench hard around the tie, hips rising out of the chair without his permission. Jesus _fuck_ , that was good.

Hank groans harshly, just shy of being too-loud, like he'd be yelling if he could. His hips are moving in his chair, too, tiny little jerks against nothing, and Vinny can see the tightness of his jaw where he's clenching his teeth together.

Vinny's breathing hard, from his little breathplay show and from being so worked up, but he manages to get out, “Lights're comin' on.”

Hank fixes him with a glassy, uncomprehending look, and Vinny has to fight to keep the whine under his breath as he rides through the need to come at how completely _gone_ Hank looks. He repeats, instead, “ _Lights_. Time – time to go.”

And indeed, the big chandeliers high above them are bursting into even brighter light as a round of applause goes through the room. Vinny's elderly seatmate on his right wakes up with a snort, blinking blearily around himself.

Vinny gulps in a breath, forces it out again, in...out, in...out, against the race of his heartbeat. He hears Hank trying to do the same, his breath stuttering with the effort. He looks anywhere but back at Hank as he adjusts his collar, sets his lapels right, smooths his dress-shirt down.

The room begins to stand and mingle again. Vinny's seatmate rises and gives him a meaningless little nod. Vinny manages to return it politely before he groans just slightly and slides out of his seat.

He's still wired, ridiculously so, but Hank's standing, too, looking far more composed than is fair at all - not when Vinny knows how disheveled he _should_ be looking, by all rights.

People start talking again, a slow murmur that gets loud quickly, filling the room. Vinny takes a deep breath and turns to say something – he doesn't even know what – to Hank, but Hank's already walking away. There's a barely noticeable hitch to his stride that Vinny nonetheless notices, and fuck, there goes his breathing again, all out in a rush and sucked back in way too fast.

Hank pauses just briefly a few paces away, then turns around and grins at Vinny. He tilts his head to the side and mouths the word “Fun,” before flicking an eyebrow up and turning on his heel.

Vinny closes his eyes and hopes he can get out of here without causing a scene.


End file.
